PS 3545 
.E2 C7 
1910 
Copy 1 



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ocnis*** 



Crowded JBoments in 
a Wanderers 



Dreams* 




BY 

CORNELIUS S. WEAVER. 



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I Crowded ^moments \ 
1!n a Manderer's Dreams 



BY I 

CORNELIUS S. WEAVER ^ 

Houston, Minn. 5 



COPrHIGHTED 1910 BY GOHNELI0S S. WEAVEH. 



v<\vo 



DEDICATED TO 

A FAITHFUL FRIEND, 

ALVIN ALMQUIST 



©CIA2652! 



FOREWORD 

Pass by, oh critical eye, that sees only to tear into shreds 
all the beauties that are. And thou, oh star of brightness, re- 
flect not thy lig-ht hereon, lest some poetical soul mistake me 
for a gem, and, disappointed shake me like a drop of dew from 
the flower that holds me. The humble lines herein are meant 
not for those with learning, gold and power, but for a little 
world of true friends — all of one common kind. 



MOUNTAIN CHIMES 



Oh, say, do you know a year ago, 

One pretty day in June, 
In the vales of old Kentucky 

Was heard a silvery tune? 

'Twas sung by wandering minstrels. 
By hearts that used to know 

The joys of an old time school room 
Some twenty years ago. 

They sang not of jingling sleighbells 
On the plains of the snowy north, 

Nor sang they of war trodden countries, 
Where troops marched back and forth. 

A harp with happy chimings 

Added to the notes 
Which sounded in the evening, 

And in my memory floats. 



Songs of school days, happy school days, 
Sounded in the air so light, 

In the old Kentucky Mountains 
In the silence of the night. 



ABANDONED 



Oh, papa, I wish that you were well, 

And now that the day is through, 
I will go get my little chair, 

For I want to talk with you. 
I've sold my candy all, 

And some matches, too, today ; 
But, papa, why do you worry so, 

When you are old and gray? 

Papa, are my brothers safe, 

In this night so dark and long? 
I heard someone say the other day, 

That they all went wrong. 
Papa, papa, where is Henry tonight? 

Is he somewhere studying his books, 
Or is he afloat in this wicked world. 

Out with the gamblers and crooks? 



Papa, where is Lily now? 

Why did she go all alone? 
Does she live tonight in a cottage like ours, 

Or in a mansion of stone? 
Once she told me she was going 

To cross the ocean blue, 
And asked that ever I should be 

Kind to mamma and you. 

When mamma died a year ago 

She stroked my golden hair. 
Standing beside her bedside here 

I heard her dying prayer. 
She turned and wept, I heard her ask 

That only they might be. 
Brought home as gentle, meek and kind 

As they put out to sea. 



Why (lid the}' leave us all alone? 

Why did not someone stay? 
I know that mamma was always s-ad, 

After they sailed away. 
The questions next of the little child 

. A'Vere of the heavens above. 
She knew not that her father lay, 

Unconscious of his love. 



She stroked his lono- and silvery locks. 

His soft white hand caressed, 
She be,^ged a whisper in reply. 

But anwser was not addressed. 
All was silent in the darkened room. 

And the one whose joy was her will, 
With the hours of nii:^ht had passed into lig'ht, 

And was forever still. 



A THOUGHT 

The days are ^s^one when earth so gayly, 

Trumpled in its prime ; 
When thrones were raised by kings. 

And crushed by ever rushing time. 

Gone mighty nations of the earth ; 

Gone monstrous powers of old. 
Caesar sleeps in a grave tonight. 

Narrow, dark and cold. 



Bonepart and the g"enerals all. 

Since earth beg'an to bloom. 
Their spoils, their powers, their glories bequeathed, 

And moulder in the tomb. 



Blest is He of the sons of men. 

Who on life's pathway trod. 
And from this wicked world unstained brot forth 

His soul immortal to His God. 



FIELDS OF CHILDHOOD EVER DEAR 



I was born where shady ehiis 

Shadows on the cabin throw ; 
I was born near sand hill ridges, 

In the time of long ago. 
From the scenes of Indiana 

I have drifted far since then, 
But in fancy I can see them, 

Brook and playground, field and glen. 

There's a place in life's long voyage 

Where peace in glory seems to bloom, 
And the heart like the humming sea shell 

Ever speaks of the happy home. 
As I gaze upon a landscape 

Or the sun at dawn of morn, 
I still think of scenes of childhood, 

Fields of wheat and tasseling corn. 

Onward, windingiy they wander. 

Peaceful waters of our day, 
But to me there's none for beauty 

Like old Stringtown's far away. 
For bright rivers I refer you^ 

To the one that gushes through. 
Sparkling, rippling and ruffling, 

Beauty named Tip-pa-canoe. 

Not so large, but, oh, so lovely, 

Silver mirror of our day. 
Show me one that is more glorious 

Than that river far away. 
Not alone in that calm river, 

With its history so dear. 
For there's many a joyous playground, 

Back upon its fruitful rear. 

Yes, within my early childhood, 

Many the pleasant day. 
Spent on playground and in wildwood. 

Of old Stringtown, far away. 
There's the "Tippie's" tributary. 

That we call Old Indian Creek; 
There's the large old sycamore, 

From which the screech owls shriek. 



By the roadside is the hickory, 

The scene of shady g-ames ; 
The orchard and the berry patch, 

With various sorts of names. 
And there's lots of watermelons, 

Or there used to be one day, 
On a real nice sunny hillside. 

Of old Stringtown, far away. 

When the old sandhill was burning", 

From the sun so awful hot. 
It made us boys go hustling, 

To get around the spot. 
And in the roasting afternoon, 

We'd often go afishing, 
Time would then pass by so soon, 
Just what we were wishing. 

And sometimes in the afternoon 

When I would hold the plow, 
Brother Jim would go and swim, 

Instead of watch the cow. 
And then so soon I'd be alone, 

A cutting down a tree, 
To get a gad to lick the lad, 

Or fight the bumble bee. 

And when my brother, Jim, came back. 

We'd have things ready for lapjack; 
Then we'd say, "Now who is king? 

He shall surely claim the ring." 
As summer passed things went this way. 

Until some fine autumnal day, 
When my father he'd come 'round. 

To again inspect the ground. 

We'd be lapping all to see. 

Who it was the king to be ; 
Well, there's not much more to say. 

Of the lapping of that day. 
Of the lapping of that day, 

Father'd say "This whip's the thing," 
And we'd soon see who was king. 
On the hillsides of old Stringtown, far away. 



As the school days came on, 

Our troubles all were gone, 
Off to school we lightly sped. 

When the cattle were all fed, 
And the sheep drove from the shed. 

And the wood was carried too, 
For we'd nothing else to do, 

When the morning chores were through. 



Then came the joyous playtime. 

And the joyous coming home ; 
We had no earthly trouble, 

Our path was all abloom. 
And we used laugh and shout. 

In the country 'round about. 
As we came a tearing out, 

On the highways of old Stringtown, far away. 



There's the old bewildered schoolhouse. 

Its shades never have turned. 
It is old and quaint and ancient, 

It was there by mother learned. 
There's an old and rustic woodland, 

With its moss plain to be seen. 
There's an old and decayed landmark. 

Where once stood a tree of green. 

There no more the children play. 

As they did in our day ; 
As they did in days of yore. 

For the tree is there no more. 
And the ring that gaily whirled, 

And the flag that once unfurled. 
Are no more to be seen on the autumn's faded green 

Near the schoolhouse called "Old Union" far 

[away. 



A DREAM REALIZED 



It was a pleasant day in May, 
The birds were singing, too ; 

X laid my school books down to play, 
Like little children do. 

The children 'round me were at work. 
Play hours they wouldn't keep; 

English lessons they wouldn't shirk, 
So I just went to sleep. 

I dreamt that I rewrote the book, 

Of Milton's Paradise ; 
As to a southeast road they took, 

I heard the children's cries. 

I saw myself with all the rest, 

Out to a supper go, 
Our going out there was not blest, 

Like coming home I know. 

The old crowbates how they did balk, 
When hills they had to climb ; 

In mud knee-deep I had to walk 
About twice half the time. 

I dreamed that when we started home. 

The rain began to fall ; 
I took a lady's brand new hat, 

And had a parasol. 

But when the storm clouds burst anew. 
We heard the axel crack, 

And worst of all, I had to walk 

And guide the sulky hack back. 

It rained and rained, all all so fast, 
On the group of sweet thirteen. 

It was the darkest, blackest night, 
That ever I had seen. 



At last we hoped no more for home, 
And stopped upon the way, 

The barn floor was the sitting room, 
In which I choose to stay. 

The horse trough was our bath-tub. 

In this our new retreat ; 
The lantern lighted the glee club, 

And helped to dry our feet. 

The horses stamped, we couldn't sleep. 
The mules kept chewing straw. 

The old cow stepped at midnight deep. 
On pussy cat's front paw. 

Suddenly I stopped sleeping, 

How strange it all did seem, 

That same night after supper, 
I realized my dream. 



ROBERT BURNS 

All's well we've said for the good in Burns, 

And time forgets misdeeds ; 
Strong is the mind that never turns, 

When justice plainly pleads. 



That every man must take his stand 
And praise won't raise him higher. 

It will not whiten a darkened band, 
Or with grace a heart inspire. 



'Tis found in speeches, books and songs. 
The present as well as the past, 

"Too bad that Burns had faults and wrongs. 
His better life to blast." 



Although misdeeds are hard to forget, 
His songs are like those of a dove. 

And we bring to the memory of Robert Burns, 
Some flowers, some tribute, some love. 



REFLECTIONS 

Far back the long lines of ag^es, 

Back to the very first, 
Swelled seeds of all the blossoms, 

That in gardens of knowledge burst. 

The early kingdoms of bygone suns, 
Have built learnings towers to last, 

And we humble poets of a later day. 

Must weave our threads with the past. 

Unnumbered are the ranks of men. 
Since the first immortal few, 

Who have tried to throw aside the past, 
And write a line or two. 

I might pronounce this unmastered, 

But no liberties I'll take, 
But oh, to pen one new bright line. 

Or a new thought awake. 



GONE 

Long years ago on the prairie. 
Long years ago on the hill. 

Long years ago in the valley, 
Roamed the Indian at will. 

The same stars peeped in his wigwam, 
The same sun gave him light. 

He saw the same moon in the heaven. 
That shines on us tonight. 

And laughing in a world of pleasure, 
We think not and little we know. 

Of the wars, the sorrows, and darkness. 
Of ages long ago. 

Onward on life's journey. 

We go like the birds of May, 

Our thoughts of four long winters. 
Were graduation day. 

Fleeting school days all so cherished, 
Down the line of time pass on. 

Like a sunbeam deep in winter. 

Cheer the heart and then are gone. 



MY LITTLE FRIEND 

The hunter placed his iron heel 

Upon the beaten track, 
Until he reachgd in the underbrush, 

A solitary shack. 

The leather shoes for moccasins, 

Were now at this place changed, 
'Twas the outskirts of the hunting ground. 

Where the deer of the deep wood ranged. 

One day, two days, three days, 

The hunter moved around, 
Through underbrush, o'er fallen log, 

Making scarce a sound. 

His practiced eye scanned every vale 

And hillside left and right. 
But the graceful form of the fleetfoot deer. 

Had never come in sight. 

'Twas nearing autumn. 

The April's leaf of New York's towering oak, 
With its fading green and changing lines, 

The season plainly spoke. 

The warm sun of the seventh morn. 

Through the foliage came, 
The hunter in a happy mood, 

Renewed his quest for game. 

Not half a mile had he gone forth, 

When a fawn in sight he spied. 
Which a fond parent from the sight of men, 

In vain had tried to hide. 

He sighted down his rifle barrel, 

His aim was good and true. 
But he lowered his gun, a childish thought 

That moment shot him through. 

That little fawn was some mother's babe. 
Her sweet wild heart's best joy, 

No doubt she loved it as his mother loved 
Her child when he was a boy. 



His thoughts flashed back to a log cabin home, 
On Maine's rough, rocky shore, 

But he dashed them aside with an ugly oath, 
And raised his gun once more. 

He shot the fawn, then advanced, 

And on his victim gazed 
A moment, dead it seemed. 

But a little flame of life still blazed. 

It tried its best in vain to rise. 

And gave a feeble call. 
As though to ask at the morn of life, 

If death to it should fall. 

So wounded it could never live 

Another single day, 
Yet for those hours even of pain, . 

It seemed to hope and pray. 

Its pleading tone seemed to ask, 

A few short moments to live. 
From him who had no right to take 

The life he could not give. 

A few short hours to look about, 

A little dew and a nibble of grass, 

A little life so simple, 

A little joy and repass. 

Was the whole earth and heaven. 

Given to this little fawn, 
Given by its Creator, 

And taken by the hunter at dawn. 



SECTION OF SONG SNATCHES 

AN HONOR 

What is an honor but an empty dream, 
Of that which is not what it is prized? 
What is an honor but a bubble of steam, 
That glows but to vanish from human eyes? 
What is an honor but the signals gleam, 
That pride with her mustered force there lies? 
An honor is like a cold moonbeam, 
Which silently chills the evenino- skies. 
An honor its part in the world has played, 
An honor to .gain king's have prayed, 
An honor the wages to soldiers paid, 
An honor with ma.ny a soverign has played. 
An honor has marshalled and armies swayed, 
An honor thrones in the dust have laid. 

TO LOUISE 

I used to practice writing- at times, 
I used to write of golden dimes, 

Of church bells sounding silver chimes. 

But unbeaten I leave your latest rhymes. 

GOOD 

Oh, sweet, indeed, the tunes of old, 

The songs of hope and joy. 
The love that to the heart brings cheer. 

And the whistling of our boy. 

ME 

Unnoticed I'll be like my humble lines. 

And other poets not few. 
Who have cast aside their labors. 

To write a line or two. 



POETRY 

The poetry of earth is never dead, 

Many the times our fathers sang, 
The songs that o'er our land was spread, " 

When first tlie bells of freedom rang. 

THE TRUE VICTOR 

The hosts of men who once in ignorance planned, 
In broken ranks now vanquished fly. 

Progress leads the future by the hand. 

And knowledge is our nation's greatest cry. 

He that in triumph will bear forth the crown, 

Will come not in the politician's line, 
But clad in truth's sweet humble gown. 
To teach the things for which our people pine. 

OH, BEAUTIFUL DAY! 

Oh, brilliant day, of sunshine sweet. 

With waters sparkling and meadows green, 

With happ}^ hearts thy coming we meet, 
And praise thy light serene. 




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